Break Everything
by Slipstream77
Summary: Peter and Neal hadn't seen each other for six weeks. Surely they had some catching up to do after returning from Cape Verde. And a few things to learn along the way . . . . follow-up to Season 4 premiere Most Wanted . Now COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Who didn't love Peter and Neal's heart-to-heart in "Diminishing Returns"? And all their scenes together so far this season, really. This is another one I wanted to see, though.

No claim to these wonderful characters; just playing with them for a while. Possible spoilers for anything up through 4x03. Some mild profanity.

Apologies in advance if the subject matter of this fic is well-trodden ground at this point.

* * *

**Break Everything**

"**Maybe we have to break everything to make something better out of ourselves."  
― Chuck Palahniuk, **_**Fight Club**_

SUMMARY: Peter and Neal hadn't seen each other for six weeks. Surely they had some catching up to do. And a few things to learn along the way . . . .

* * *

**Chapter One – Camouflage**

Camouflage is a game we all like to play, but our secrets are as surely revealed by what we want to seem to be, as by what we want to conceal.

- Russell Lynes (1910-1991)

….

Outside the windows that overlooked June's terrace, night was beginning to fall over New York.

Neal had always loved this part of the day. During his former life, of course, nighttime was often when he went to work. Shadow served his purposes much better than light; darkness was the ideal secret-keeper. And so dusk had frequently been a time of pleasurable tension, of anticipation of what was to come.

But even beyond the practical aspects, Neal was an admirer of beauty, and there were few sights as magnificent as the glint of the setting sun off the buildings, subtly changing their color. He had always been captivated by how the lights in the windows seemed to brighten and the buildings to glow as the background sky purpled slowly into darkness.

On the island, too, sunset and the immediate aftermath had been, for Neal, the most spectacular moments of the day. On Cape Verde, though, there had been stars afterward. More stars than Neal had ever seen in his life—he hadn't spent much time in places where the nighttime sky was dark enough to spot them.

Of course, in New York, there were no stars. But the city held other charms.

….

At Peter's knock, Neal let him in, glancing inside the brown paper bag he carried. He let out a low whistle. "_Two _six-packs? Am I going to be driving you home?"

"Yeah, right," Peter said wryly. "Do you even have a valid driver's license?"

Actually, Neal had several _(although how you defined 'valid' could be an issue . . .)_. Not wanting things to get off on the wrong foot, however, he took the path of least resistance. "Do you really want me to answer that?"

"No," Peter said, taking out a beer and placing the rest in the refrigerator. "Rhetorical question—forget I even asked. As for the beer, you leave me no choice, since I have to bring my own. Haven't been here in . . . it's going on seven weeks. Gotta restock the supply." He turned around to look at Neal. "I assume I'll be invited back at some point to drink the rest of it?"

Neal smiled. "I hope that's another rhetorical question."

Peter's lips quirked in response as he walked back to the table and reached into the bag. "For you. Welcome home gift."

Neal accepted the bottle of wine Peter handed him. "Aw, thanks, Peter." He held it up, scrutinized the label. "Um, that's . . . that's really—"

". . . probably not your usual," Peter finished.

"No . . . not quite, but it's very . . . thoughtful of you."

"Well, they say it's the thought that counts."

"In this case, definitely," Neal muttered under his breath, taking a wine glass from the cupboard. In a louder voice, he said, "I've already got a bottle open, though. Think I'll save this one for later."

"Probably not a bad idea to let it age a bit," Peter allowed. "Since it is a rather . . . recent vintage."

Neal chuckled and a few seconds later, Peter joined in.

By unspoken agreement, Peter and Neal had waited to discuss in any detail what the last six weeks had brought. It was as if both of them had needed time to decompress, to digest everything that had occurred before they could talk about it. And of course, this conversation had to take place in private—just the two of them. Tonight was the first chance they'd had.

As they sat there at Neal's table, drinking and talking, the barriers came down on both sides.

….

Peter was always curious, about everything; a prerequisite for an FBI agent, probably. Neal thought it was a wonder the man had managed to keep it together this long without having a stroke or something—just from the sheer need to know. While he'd never come out and say it, Peter Burke nonetheless had to be dying to find out everything Neal and Mozzie had been up to.

Or at least, everything that wouldn't create more thorny ethical dilemmas for him. There _was_ that important caveat.

Since the last thing Neal wanted was for Peter to have a stroke (they'd been through enough already), he did his level best to fill in the blanks, telling Peter about life on Cape Verde. He found himself embroidering on reality just a tad, because it really didn't sound like much, he had to admit—now that he was looking back on it.

He talked about his daily routine and extolled the relaxed pace of life, the beauty of the scenery, the warmth of the ocean, the near-perfect weather. The friendliness of the people (up until the moment he'd had a half-million dollar bounty placed on his head, anyway). How he'd befriended Hector—and wooed Maya. He omitted any discussion of Dobbs. It still galled Neal that he'd stupidly trusted the man; he should have known better that. He did tell Peter how he'd busied himself with painting some truly lovely reproductions (not forgeries, of course, definitely reproductions).

"Losing those paintings was probably my biggest regret," Neal mused, wistfully picturing them in his mind's eye. "I had done some pretty good work. It's amazing how productive you can be when you don't have to slave away every day from nine to five," he added with a sly, sidelong glance at Peter.

Peter just rolled his eyes. "Most people's biggest regret would be getting shot," he pointed out, ever pragmatic.

"Oh, that's right up there," Neal assured him. "Hurt like hell." His expression turned pensive. "But losing the art hurt, too. When we realized Collins was on our tail, I had to burn everything."

"History repeating itself," Peter said dryly.

"You know, I hadn't thought of it that way—but you're right," Neal admitted, laughing in spite of himself. "It seems my work is just not destined for posterity."

Neal was careful not to talk about how their lavish lifestyle had been financed, and he noticed that Peter was equally careful not to ask. Which was a relief to Neal, even if it meant that Peter was quietly crossing a line again. Perhaps that was just an inevitability now—something they'd both have to get used to.

Privately, Neal had been less than pleased to learn that Mozzie had squirreled away half the treasure. In Neal's mind, by that point, the cache was a headache he didn't need. Yet Mozzie's action was unsurprising and, in its own way, quite generous. Since Neal had benefited from it, it would be awfully hypocritical to complain about it—or to say anything to Peter.

So Neal was mum on the matter of their financial resources, and Peter knew enough not to ask.

Peter had plenty of other things to say, though.

"It all sounds pretty idyllic," Peter commented when Neal had finished his paean to the joys of life on Cape Verde. Peter said the words lightly, but there was something about the set lines of his face that belied his tone.

"You think?" Neal's deflection was automatic, and so was his smile. Peter, of course, would know it wasn't one of his real ones.

"Actually, no," Peter said bluntly—no deflection from _him_, Neal noted, and it made him feel an incongruous little rush of happiness, because this, _this, _was Peter.

This was the kind of thing Neal had missed, without even realizing that he'd been missing it.

"I mean, for a vacation, sure, it sounds great," Peter continued. "But for the rest of your life? No. For the rest of your life, it sounds pretty boring."

Their eyes met, and Neal, for once, didn't know what to say. Or he knew, in his heart, what he _thought_, but something in him didn't want to say it out loud, to admit so quickly that Peter was right. Neal found he had to look away.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. When Peter resumed, his voice was casual once again.

"So . . . you were enjoying quite the island life for six weeks. Do you miss it?"

_The very same words Mozzie had used, when asking him about New York._

"Island life had its charms," Neal allowed, which certainly was true—if not quite an answer.

"When we talked on the phone, you said you were happy there," Peter observed.

"Mmm. I did say that."

Peter tilted his head and gave him that old, familiar _cut the crap, Caffrey _look—one Neal had pictured in his mind more than once over the last six weeks. Once he'd even tried, furtively, to sketch it. But he'd had to do a quick concealment/disposal when he realized that if Mozzie ever saw it, he'd think Neal had lost his mind. Fleeing felons living under the radar on non-extradition island hideaways didn't draw pictures of the FBI agent who'd chased them for years. It was strictly prohibited in the fugitive bylaws.

Or, it would have been if the very notion wasn't bat-shit insane.

_Just as well I threw it away, anyway,_ Neal thought. Now, as he scrutinized Peter and catalogued his features, set in _that_ _look_, Neal could see that the tilt of the mouth in the sketch had been all wrong, anyway, and even the eyes hadn't been a good likeness, they'd been too—

"Have to hand it to you, Neal," Peter said, jarring him from his reverie. "I think you've just set a record for the most non-answers in a single conversation."

"Didn't realize you were keeping track."

Peter shook his head. "And there's another one."

"Hard habit to break," Neal admitted.

"You said you were happy there," Peter persisted. "I remember that quite distinctly, but—"

"Wait. Hold on a minute," Neal interrupted, deciding it was time to reassert some control over this impromptu interrogation Peter was conducting. Two could play that game; why should Peter get to have all the fun? "You _remember,_" he echoed, putting a very definitive emphasis on the verb. "Why do I have the feeling that you didn't have to rely solely on _memory_ for the details of that conversation?"

Peter cleared his throat and glanced away. His tells could be embarrassingly blatant. There were times when Neal thought Peter would make one hell of a con man. Then there were other times—like now—when Neal wondered how he ever could have thought that Peter could con anyone.

_Or maybe it's just that Peter can't con __**you**_, a voice in his mind said.

Neal decided he liked that theory much better.

"Uh, yeah. Well, we'll get to that," Peter said, uncharacteristically hesitant. "You first, though. You haven't answered _my_ question yet."

Neal sighed. Peter wasn't going to stop until he had an answer. Really, why had Neal ever imagined it would be otherwise?

There were only two problems with that. First, Neal wasn't quite sure what the answer was. He had an idea, but that led directly to the second problem: he wasn't quite sure whether Peter was truly ready to hear it.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two—Anything You Lose

"Anything you lose comes round in another form."  
― Rumi (1207-1273)

* * *

Neal leaned back and contemplated the ceiling. "You want to know why I haven't answered your question? If you think I'm being evasive, Peter, I'm not—I swear. It's just that it's . . . complicated."

"With you, it usually is," Peter replied, but there was no frustration in his voice—just matter-of-fact acceptance. "In fact, if you told me it was _simple_," he muttered under his breath, "_then _I'd start to worry."

The honesty of the last comment drew a small grin from Neal. He thought for a moment, and then slowly nodded in acknowledgment. "Okay. Yes, I said I was happy. And . . . I was."

He gave a slight shrug. "At the time. More or less."

Peter looked satisfied at the equivocation, recognizing it for the candor it was. "But?"

Again, Neal considered it for a few seconds before he spoke. "But, if I were being honest—"

"Which you weren't," Peter interjected.

Neal threw him a silencing look. "Can I finish? If I were being honest with _myself, _I would have admitted that it wouldn't last."

"And now?"

"Now? It's still complicated," Neal replied.

"Of course it is," Peter said, sighing. "Of course _you_ are."

"I missed New York every day," Neal said quietly. "I missed . . . everything about it." He waved a hand in an expansive gesture that took in the city outside, the stunning view, the room around them, and that ended with a long look at Peter himself—so there would be no mistaking that it wasn't just the city or the view that Neal had missed.

Peter's smile was warm and knowing, which made sense since he already knew how Neal felt about New York—and everything and everyone that went along with it. Going back to when Keller had taken Elizabeth, Peter had known that for sure (and suspected it for a while before that).

"I . . . I've taken a lot of things in my life," Neal said. The words came out slowly, haltingly, with none of that usual smooth Caffrey rhythm. "And yet . . . I've lost a lot of things, too. I've gotten _used to_ losing things and . . . people." He stopped and looked away. "I'm not so used to getting them back."

"All this . . . everything here, I thought it was gone. I understood that, I _accepted_ it," he said, almost fiercely, like he thought Peter wouldn't believe him.

Peter had no difficulty believing him, though. Neal's words from their phone conversation were burned into his memory.

_It's not over, _Peter had insisted_. _

_Yeah, it is, _Neal had retorted, without a hint of ambiguity or a trace of hesitation. _New York and I are done._

Neal had meant that part; Peter had no doubt of that.

Neal studied his wine glass intently. "I was prepared to move on. A new mind-set, you know? Close the book, start a new one. But now, having it all back, it's . . . ." his voice faltered.

"An adjustment?" Peter suggested when Neal seemed, unexpectedly, to be grasping for the right word.

"Yeah. A big one. It isn't that I'm not glad—I am. It means everything to me. Truthfully, I . . . I didn't realize just how much until I thought I'd lost it forever." Neal started to say something else and then stopped.

"But?" Peter asked, watching him carefully.

"But . . . it does come with a price." Neal lifted his left leg a bit to display the anklet, glowing bright green in the semi-dark of the room.

He swirled the wine in the goblet and took a deep breath. When Neal finally looked up, there was a kind of fervor in his gaze that seemed so alien, it jolted Peter into wariness.

"You want some honesty, Peter? Well, here it is. Losing that goddamned anklet was intoxicating. _Freedom _was intoxicating, and it made me feel like a different person, maybe even a better person."

"Do I miss that? Yeah." Neal's voice was harsh. "You're damned right I miss it."

Neal let out a long sigh and shook his head abruptly. "Look, I don't want to sound like I'm wallowing here. Or desperate enough to run. Or even . . . unhappy. I'm not—not at all. I'm back where I want to be, Peter. And I'm smart enough to know that the tracker doesn't define me. But it's just that . . . it can be hard to imagine a different future when you carry an inescapable reminder of your past sins. When it's weighing you down like an anchor, every hour of every day."

Peter nodded. He'd said much the same, at the hearing. In rather more prosaic language—and minus Neal's imagery—but the sentiment was close enough.

Neal laid both hands flat on the table and looked Peter in the eye once more. "The thing is, a wise man once told me that you can't have it all, though admittedly it's a concept I'm still . . . wrestling with. The idea that sometimes, you have to give up things you want –for the things you want more."

Frowning, Peter raised an eyebrow. "Hmm. I . . . don 't remember saying that."

Neal rolled his eyes. "That's because you didn't. You don't have a monopoly on wisdom, Agent Burke." A moment later he added, "It was Jones, actually."

"Ah." Peter looked surprised—and pleased.

"In my case," Neal continued, "I realized that I could be free, or I could have this life, here in New York. I wanted them both, of course. But to get the one, I had to give up the other. And that's . . . not easy to accept."

Peter nodded, thinking, not for the first time, how unfair it was that Neal had had to make that choice. He could have had both. By rights, he _should_ have had both.

"And yet," Peter added, "if there's anyone who _could_ figure out a way to have it all, it's you, Neal."

"Aw, Peter, that's one of the nicest things you've ever said to me," Neal said, flashing him a genuine smile. He thought for a minute, grin fading. "Mozzie didn't think so."

"Of course not. He's a confirmed pessimist."

"True," Neal conceded. "He had a good quote on it, though."

_Oh boy, _Peter thought.

* * *

_Actually, the conversation between him and Mozzie had been eerily similar to the one he and Peter were having right now. Just the two of them, sharing drinks in the early evening (except they'd been drinking mojitos, not beer and wine), admiring a breathtaking view (only the sunset had been over the ocean, instead of the New York skyline). _

_And Mozzie asking, "So, are you happy?"_

"_Why wouldn't I be? There's a lot to like," he'd replied, staring out at the fading glow on the horizon and wondering absent-mindedly how many miles away the land on the other side was._

_Mozzie had smiled a little, recognizing the non-answer (just like Peter)._

"_It's remarkably beautiful," he'd said quickly, because he could tell Mozzie was expecting . . . something. "And peaceful, you know? I'd kind of forgotten what that felt like."_

"_But?" Mozzie knew him well enough to sense that there was a 'but' coming._

"_But, sometimes it feels like a very beautiful, very peaceful prison," Neal had admitted, dragging his eyes away from the dying spectacle of the sunset to meet Mozzie's inquisitive gaze._

"_And yet you're anklet-free," Mozz had pointed out. "You can go wherever you want."_

"_On this island, yes." The qualifier was important._

_And then Mozzie had said—_

* * *

Neal looked at Peter, bringing his mind back to the here and now. "Mozzie said you can have peace, or you can have freedom, but you shouldn't ever count on having both at once."

"Quoting himself?"

"No, Robert Heinlein," Neal said, and then asked idly, "Ever read him?"

"Not much of a science fiction guy," Peter said, which was true—he'd never had any patience for it. He wasn't going to let Neal sidetrack him into a discussion of favorite literary genres, though (no matter how hard Neal might try to). "So, you buy that? Peace or freedom, but not at the same time. What do _you _think?"

Neal laughed; there was a bitter note in it that Peter hated. "I think that, given my life, maybe I shouldn't count on having _either_ of them—at _any _time."

"That doesn't sound like you."

Neal shrugged and looked away. "Welcome to my fatalistic streak."

Peter watched him stare out at that glorious skyline, somber and unblinking, like he was searching for a revelation in the darkening sky. They were both quiet for a few moments before Peter broke the silence.

"You're not free here, Neal," Peter said softly. "And I know how much you wanted that. But I think you _can_ find some peace here. If you let yourself. In fact, if you're honest, I think you'd realize that you already have."

"Wow, that's profound, Peter," Neal remarked, smiling a little. Peter could tell that, in characteristic Caffrey fashion, he thought he'd revealed too much and was backtracking, trying to lighten the mood. "So Jones doesn't have a monopoly on wisdom, either."

"Damn right he doesn't," Peter shot back. "And since we're throwing pretentious quotes around, I've got one for you that's pretty on point." He cleared his throat. "_'Freedom is not worth having if it does not include the freedom to make mistakes.'"_

Neal's eyes lit up. "I know that one!" He pondered for several seconds. "Hmm . . . I think it was . . . was it Gandhi?"

"Very good," Peter said approvingly. "That's pretty much what I told them, you know."

"Told whom?"

"The committee. When I testified at your commutation."

Neal's gaze sharpened; he might have been preoccupied before, but Peter had his full attention now.

"I said that you deserved the freedom to make your own decisions. That you couldn't truly become more than what you'd been without the right to make those choices."

Neal shook his head, a confused look on his face. "But when you said that, you knew I was already gone."

"I did."

"So you should have played it accordingly!" Neal said, atypical frustration in his voice. "You should have said that I shouldn't be free, that I couldn't be trusted. That way, you wouldn't have looked so bad when I ran." _This was_ _obvious. Peter should have known that._

"I swore an oath at that hearing. That means something to me," Peter said, tone a little reproving.

Neal sighed.

"I had to say what I believed, Neal. What I believe now. You aren't the same person you were all those years ago. You deserved to be free, to make your own choices. And in my mind, you still do, by the way. Even though, after your little excursion to Cape Verde, the DOJ doesn't see it that way."

Peter took a long gulp of beer, but Neal only fidgeted with the stem of his wine glass. Watching him, Peter suddenly realized that Neal had actually drunk very little.

"So real freedom is the right to make mistakes," Neal said thoughtfully. "Does that mean that if I were free, you don't think I would make any?"

"Not make _any_?" Peter asked. "No. You're a human being, and we all make mistakes. God knows, I've made my share, some of which helped put you in a hell of a spot." _Neal didn't know how true that was, _he thought guiltily.

"But," Peter continued, "I think you've grown to the point where you won't make the same mistakes, and hopefully not as serious. And when you do make them, that you'll learn from them."

"Thanks, Peter," Neal said. His eyes shone in the gloom with an emotion Peter couldn't quite identify, but the dark-blue intensity of it was startling. "Despite what I said before, it's—it means a lot that you said that at the hearing. And that . . . you think that about me."

They both drank and looked out the window, as a comfortable silence filled the room.

"Want a fresh one?" Neal asked. Peter's bottle was nearly empty.

"Oh, I don't know," Peter said. "It's getting a little late."

"Actually, it's early, and you told me Elizabeth had an event tonight, which means she won't be home for hours," Neal reminded him. He didn't wait for Peter to respond, but instead got up and retrieved another beer from the refrigerator.

Returning to the table, Neal removed the cap and set the bottle in front of Peter. "I think another beer is in order."

"Clearly," Peter remarked dryly.

Neal grinned at him; his melancholy mood of a moment ago seemed to have lifted. "Even you would have to admit that I've been remarkably forthcoming and open—for someone with as many secrets as I've historically had," he pointed out. "Which means that now it's your turn, Mr. Three-and-Oh."

Peter's grip on the bottle tightened, and he suddenly appeared fascinated by the writing on the label. Never mind that it was far too dark in here to read anything.

For Neal, expert at reading people and particularly adept at reading Peter, it might as well have been a flashing neon sign. Peter's unease was palpable.

_Curious. _

Neal topped off his wine and settled back in his chair to wait, still smiling. _This _part of the conversation, he was really looking forward to.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three – Great Possibilities**

Note: This piece is set just after Peter and Neal's return to New York, so events depicted in this season's subsequent episodes have not yet occurred in this story.

….

"**True friends will always push you towards the great possibilities of your future; false friends will always chain you to the mistakes in your past." **

―**Seth Brown **

* * *

Peter didn't seem at all eager to tell his side of the story.

He should have looked like what he was: an accomplished FBI agent who, through sheer skill and ingenuity, had managed to locate a fugitive whom no one else in law enforcement could find.

Then why, Neal wondered, did Peter look like a beaten man?

Like someone who was about to be called on the carpet for screwing up. Or somebody with a monster toothache who was about to undergo a root canal. Peter was a peculiar combination of tense, resigned, antsy and unhappy. Like he desperately wished he were somewhere else—anywhere but here.

This obvious reluctance made no sense to Neal. He was offering Peter the chance to show how clever he was—and it wasn't as if Neal was going to hold it against him. Granted, Peter wasn't an inveterate self-promoter like Neal was, but still . . . this reticence was odd.

"What's the problem?" he asked brightly, trying to get Peter in the proper spirit. "You're three-and-oh. Let's hear about it."

"Finding you is hardly something I'm going to brag about now," Peter muttered.

"Why not? It might be your most impressive effort of the three," Neal offered. He could afford to be magnanimous, but it was actually true. The first two times, Peter had tracked him using Kate—and really, the second time, Neal hadn't even been trying.

This time—well, this time had been different.

"It's okay, Peter, really. I'm all ears, and I'm dying to know every detail."

"Yeah, well . . . I don't want to give away all my secrets," Peter said, somewhat lamely.

Neal waved that objection away with a hand, laughing. _Peter had to be kidding. Right?_

"Don't take this the wrong way, Peter, but I probably know most of them already. Come on, let's have it. Brag about your brilliance all you want."

"It wasn't just me. I had help," Peter said, shooting a furtive look at Neal before shifting to look out the window again.

"Yeah, _from me,_ for starters," Neal said, rolling his eyes.

"Well, yeah. And from Jones and Diana."

"Teamwork," Neal remarked, leaning back in his chair and grinning. "Love it. Except—wasn't it a risk to involve them?"

"Of course. I wasn't going to," Peter admitted, "but they kind of wore me down." He glanced at Neal, a troubled expression on his face.

Neal sighed. "Don't look like that. They knew the risks, they're loyal and they did it for you. Heartwarming, truly. But let's go back a bit. I want to hear about the big picture first."

"Fine," Peter said grimly. There was no way out of this, he knew. He'd just have to make the best of it.

And take his (richly deserved) lumps when the time came.

...

Peter really was acting strangely. This went beyond mere reluctance. This was something more, something deeper, something that looked like . . . _no, it can't be_, Neal thought.

If he didn't know better, he might have said that Peter was . . . nervous. Or even worse: embarrassed. And that couldn't be.

_Except what if it was?_

But how often did Peter Burke get embarrassed? What would _cause_ that?

Neal flipped through his memory banks, trying to come up with situations when Peter had been honest-to-God embarrassed. Not annoyed—_those_ instances were too numerous to count—but actually mortified. And not by something Neal had done, either. By something Peter himself had done.

Examples of that were few and far between.

One that came to mind was the Walker case, Neal's first after Kate . . . after getting out of prison again. Multiple bank robberies, perfectly executed. A cocky-as-hell perpetrator openly taunting Peter with alarm clocks in safety deposit boxes all over town—and ultimately, a lawsuit. _It's no fun when the bad guy makes your friend look like an idiot, _Neal remembered saying to Peter, then wincing at how bad that had sounded. Peter had been embarrassed, yes, but that had only driven him, provided even greater motivation to nail Walker. Which they had, of course.

This was different. Peter didn't look driven now. He looked sort of . . . haunted.

Another example that came readily to mind was the Haustenberg case. In that hotel room, with those two French girls, Peter had been—well, if you were being charitable, you'd say he'd been out of his element. Or, if you were being brutally honest, you'd say Peter had been utterly flummoxed. Completely hopeless. And embarrassed as hell.

But that had been Peter's acknowledged inability to flirt. Again, this was different. This was Peter seeming ashamed, so much so that he wanted to hide it . . . whatever _it _was.

That shaded into a related issue: Why would Peter want to keep a secret from Neal? Well, that was an easier question; Neal could think of many reasons for Peter to hide something from him. He went through his mental list quickly.

The first would be if Peter crossed a line that he thought would set a bad example for Neal, making Peter look like a hypocrite when he tried to preach about obeying the rules. Something like that, Neal could easily imagine Peter would try to conceal. Yet, given what Peter had done—that Neal already knew about—Neal wasn't buying that one. What would constitute more serious line-crossing than helping a criminal return stolen property and then signaling him to run? For God's sake, Peter had flown halfway around the world to aid a fleeing felon. What worse thing could he do? In theory, he could frame a suspect, or kill someone . . . or cheat on Elizabeth. But because this was Peter, Neal dismissed such possibilities out of hand. Peter would no more do those things than he'd dye his hair blue and get a nose piercing.

The second reason for Peter to hide something would be if it could get a third party in trouble, that could reflect badly on someone Peter cared about—like Jones or Diana. But Neal didn't think that applied here, either. Even if there were something Peter was keeping mum about to protect them, then why would _he_ be embarrassed about it?

Which left reason number three: that it was something that reflected poorly on Peter himself. There was nothing Peter took more pride in than his own competence. Nothing would bother him more than failing to meet the high standards he set for himself.

Neal placed a mental bet with himself that number three had to be it. If he was right about the basis for Peter's trepidation, he'd reward himself by pulling a con on somebody—nothing that would hurt anyone, just some harmless pretending with a random stranger that would allow him to keep up his social engineering skills. (Sometimes Neal secretly worried that he was getting out of practice. He was careful to keep this fear to himself, though; Peter probably wouldn't understand.)

The conclusion was inescapable: somehow, some way, Peter had screwed up. Badly enough that he didn't want to talk about it. Badly enough to make him _embarrassed_ in a way Neal had never seen before.

Casting a shrewd glance at him, Neal felt uneasy. Peter was so visibly uncomfortable that Neal momentarily considered dropping the whole line of inquiry. He couldn't, though; he was too curious. He'd already started formulating his own theories, but only Peter could confirm them.

Plus, Peter being so congenitally honest and accountable, he'd probably blurt it out—whatever _it _was—even if Neal told him not to, just to get it off his chest. That was _totally_ something Peter would do.

Neal had always believed that a bit of mystery could be a good thing, but he knew—from long personal experience—that Peter didn't share that belief.

A shame, really.

* * *

Neal had described his and Mozzie's island experiences; now it was Peter's turn to detail how he'd spent the last six weeks.

He began by reiterating that he hadn't been actively involved in the Bureau's hunt for Neal. Yes, Peter had given a statement and prepared a report with data about the fugitive that the agents conducting the search might find useful. But the day-to-day legwork of the official investigation had been carried out by others.

"Pretty big search then, eh?" Neal inquired hopefully, looking flattered. "Lots of agents on the case?"

"Well, yeah," Peter answered. "Marshals, too; it was quite the operation." He observed Neal's gleeful demeanor—it was hard to miss—and sighed. "One that you're just a little _too_ excited about, I might add."

"Come on, Peter. Let me savor it a little," Neal pleaded. "After all," he added wistfully, "it's probably the last time I'll ever be the subject of a manhunt."

Peter's groan was audible. "It better be."

"Hey, this one wasn't my idea," Neal reminded him, a slight smirk on his face. "If you'd just quit telling me to run, it shouldn't be a problem."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Deal."

"Okay," Neal said briskly, "let's get back on topic. The hunt for Neal Caffrey, wanted fugitive, is consuming the FBI. The master criminal who eluded law enforcement yet again has disappeared without—"

"You really are impossible," Peter interrupted. "Do you mind? I'm telling this story. And if your head gets any bigger, you won't be able to fit through the doorway of your apartment."

Neal just inclined his head and smiled knowingly.

"Yes, there was a team of agents on the investigation, although to say it 'consumed the FBI' would be a gross misrepresentation." He shot Neal a stern look; of course, Neal shrugged airily—and didn't look the slightest bit chastened.

"But I wasn't assigned to it. Hughes told me in no uncertain terms to focus on my caseload. To try to make people forget that I'd vouched for your trustworthiness just as you were cutting and running."

Neal had still been aglow with blissful contentment at the thought of the massive manhunt he'd warranted, but Peter's last comment sobered him. The agent had willingly risked his own reputation rather than lie about Neal at the commutation hearing. It embodied a level of devotion that Neal found unnerving.

"That can't have been easy for you."

Now it was Peter's turn to shrug. "Not worth discussing. Or feeling guilty about. When I did it, I knew the risks."

_And you're loyal and you did it for me, _Neal thought. Much like Jones and Diana had done for Peter . . . .

And it wasn't even close to being the biggest risk Peter had taken on Neal's behalf—not by a long shot. When Peter had shown up on Cape Verde, tracking down a highly wanted fugitive, just so he could make sure said fugitive_ stayed hidden_ . . . Neal had been stunned at the sheer audacity of it. If Dobbs hadn't turned out to be McLeish, if Peter _had_ helped Neal evade capture permanently, just how the hell would Peter have explained that to the FBI? Forget salvaging his career—he would have been lucky to avoid prison.

Neal still found it hard to believe—the magnitude of just how far Peter had gone for him.

But that was jumping ahead a bit.

"So, other—and I might add, _lesser_—" he added with a tip of an imaginary cap to Peter, "agents are pounding the pavement looking for me, but it's back to normal—more or less—for you. You're working cases. How'd that go, by the way?"

"What do you mean? It went fine."

Neal gave him a look. "You're working cases _without me._"

"Neal, this may be hard for you to believe, but I actually had quite a decorated career as an FBI agent before I consented to rescue your sorry ass from prison. I am capable of functioning without you, you know."

"Oh, I know all about super-agent Peter Burke," Neal hastily assured him. "Too well, in fact. I wasn't implying that you _couldn't_ do it without me. I was asking _how it was_ without me." He cracked a winning smile. "Didja miss me?"

Peter scrutinized him for a few seconds, a serious look on his face. He took a deep breath and leaned forward, hunching over the table, staring down at it. "The truth?"

"Um, I would hope so," Neal said, appearing a little startled at first, but then mirroring Peter's solemn mien. "I mean . . . you know how I am about the truth. Now, that is."

"I don't know." Peter looked doubtful. "I really don't need any more trouble where you're concerned. Or to give you any more ammunition to use against me."

Neal gave him a wounded look. "Me, trouble? Come on. That was the _old_ me. You can say it; I won't tell. So what was it like? You really missed me?"

"I'll probably regret saying this . . . but it just wasn't the same without you around," Peter admitted, staring into space with an air of reminiscence, a fond expression on his face. Neal responded with an eager smile and waited, rapt. To Peter, stealing a quick sidelong glance, he looked oddly like a puppy waiting to be patted on the head for good behavior.

"For example, every time I drank a cup of the office coffee and no one complained about how wretched it was—I thought of you," Peter mused, a kind of absent-minded affection in his voice. "I'd think, _'gee, if only Neal were here to scoff about how it should be against the law to even call this coffee. I really miss that guy.'_"

Neal's eager smile was quickly fading. If he'd resembled an excited puppy before, now he looked more like a puppy who'd suddenly gotten smacked with a newspaper.

"Or," Peter continued, "any time we were in the van. It was almost heart-wrenching that you weren't there to whine about how claustrophobic it was, and how bad my deviled ham smelled, and '_come on, Peter, can't_ _we buy some nice pine-scented air fresheners and charge them to the Bureau?'_"

Neal tried to cut in, then, but Peter talked right over him.

"And you know when I thought of you the most? Every time I gave someone an order and they obeyed it instead of doing whatever the hell they wanted. I'd think, _wow, I miss those days when Neal would completely disregard protocol and get himself into some mess that I'd have to clean up. That was so much more fun than now, when people pay attention and actually do what they're told and—_"

"Enough. Fine, be that way. I get the picture," Neal retorted, but it didn't matter—Peter had already had to stop talking because he couldn't keep a straight face anymore and finally started laughing out loud.

Neal pasted on a look of pretend annoyance, but he couldn't maintain it, either. "I am just sorry I have nothing within reach to throw at you right now, Agent Burke."

"Assaulting a federal agent," Peter warned—when he had stopped chuckling enough to be able to respond.

"Worth it," Neal told him. "It would totally be worth it. I can't _believe_ you. So out of touch with your emotions. So afraid to share your feelings." He waved a hand in his own general direction. "Hey, _I _said it."

Peter was a stickler for accuracy. "Actually, you said you missed _New York."_

"And_ everything about it_," Neal corrected him. "You know what I meant."

"Well," Peter conceded. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Neal waited, watching patiently, until Peter eventually admitted, "Okay, sure. It was different. I missed your . . . unique slant on things. Not having you around made my life easier, in some ways, but a whole lot less interesting. And . . . well, let's just say your insight on the cases was missed."

Neal's lips curved into a smile, not the blinding one that meant trouble, but the real one, the rarer one, and Peter had to confess, if only to himself, that he _had_ missed that a little bit, too. He gave Neal an answering smile that said more than any words could.

"So you're keeping your nose to the grindstone," Neal prompted. "You're not _actively involved_ in what the Bureau was doing; you're not _assigned_ to the investigation. Very crafty—I see what you did there, by the way."

Peter couldn't help grinning, just a little. "Yes. You noticed. I wasn't part of the Bureau's efforts. But I _was_ conducting my own . . . private, unsanctioned investigation."

"Couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?" Neal said, but he was clearly teasing. "Well, you _are _the Archeologist, after all."

Peter's smile faded. _Yeah, great idea to remind Peter about Kramer, Neal. Real smart._

"What happened to you—what Kramer tried to do—wasn't fair, Neal," Peter said quietly. "And it was partially my fault. I was trying to . . . to fix it."

Neal shook his head vigorously and ticked his points off on his fingers. "To which I say: One, life isn't fair. Two, this mess was much more my fault than yours. And three, you always want to fix _everything_, Peter."

"Can't help that."

"No, I guess not," Neal acknowledged. "So your plan was . . . ."

Peter locked eyes with Neal. "Find you and figure out how to get you back in the Bureau's good graces so you could come back home," he said simply.

Not _back to New York. Back home._ Neal looked away and discovered he had to clear his throat. "I—I'm guessing you didn't have much luck at first."

"Nope. A lot of dead ends. For my private investigation _and _the official one. If Mozzie ever suffers from low self-esteem—unlikely, I admit—you can tell him that he did one hell of a job. He had your tracks thoroughly covered. There was nothing to find. I'm assuming he was in charge of your escape and your destination?"

Neal tilted his head in assent. "Secrecy is his specialty; he hid us well. So what changed?"

"Collins," Peter spat, scowling. "They brought him in when the initial search went nowhere."

"What was his angle?"

"He went after Ellen," Peter said simply.

Neal's face darkened as Peter continued. "Which was a problem, because I'd had Jones flag her when you visited, the day everything went down."

"So you located Ellen and she told you how to contact me."

"Not quite," Peter admitted. "Actually, Collins found her; she wasn't on Roosevelt Island anymore. I figured she was the key to finding you, so I followed him to her place."

"I'm impressed with your deviousness," Neal said admiringly.

"Yeah, don't be too impressed yet. She wouldn't give Collins the time of day, but she was even more abrupt with me."

"Ellen's smart. And savvy," Neal said, sounding almost proud. "Plus, living in Wit Sec teaches you not to open up to anybody."

"Well, a_lmost _anybody."

Neal stared at him, riveted. "She wouldn't talk to Collins, she wouldn't talk to you. So how did you get that number to page me?"

"Guess," Peter said. Neal could hear the hint of smugness in his voice.

Puzzles always piqued Neal's interest. For a few seconds, he pondered and then began to think out loud.

"Let's see. It would have to be somebody who's very persuasive, because Ellen is a tough nut to crack."

"Especially when it comes to you," Peter put in.

That seemed to give Neal pause. He had opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again and didn't say anything for a long moment. Peter could tell the comment about Ellen had triggered emotions—or maybe memories—that Neal wasn't quite prepared for.

"Yeah," Neal said, a little huskily. "Yeah, well . . . we go way back." He picked up his glass and took a long drink of wine, a small, private smile on his face.

Peter nodded. There was a long shared history between them of which Peter knew very little, except that there was loyalty and protectiveness on both sides—the sort of bond that only developed over many years.

Taking a deep breath, Neal seemed to recover his equilibrium. "So where was I? You needed someone skilled at persuasion. Someone who could convince her that you had my best interests at heart, who could vouch for you specifically. And really, it can't have been anyone in law enforcement, because Ellen has very good reason to be suspicious of people with that affiliation."

He eyed Peter thoughtfully. "Plus, it had to be somebody close enough to you to be in the loop on your 'unsanctioned' investigation. I'm assuming that was a well-guarded secret."

_Not well-guarded enough, _Peter thought, wincing inwardly, but he kept his expression neutral. There'd be plenty of time to get to that later.

"I was almost going to suggest Charlotte, but I guess she doesn't fit the last criterion," Neal said casually.

"_Charlotte?_" Peter repeated, incredulous. That had come totally out of left field."Wait, you mean our neighbor, Charlotte?"

Neal nodded.

"How the hell do you even _know_ her?"

"I've met her a couple of times, when I was walking Satch for you," Neal said patiently. "Charming woman. And she would have been great for this. She's not a cop, she's a writer—in fact, very anti-establishment. Extremely articulate. She likes me and she's a big fan of yours. Sometimes you gotta think outside the box. She would have made a great go-between."

Peter shook his head. Leave it to Neal to know his neighbors better than he did. "I like Charlotte, but there's no way in hell I would ever involve her in something like this." He was almost spluttering. "That's completely—"

"Geez, take it easy, Peter," Neal said, laughing. "I know. I just wanted to see your reaction."

"Oh," Peter said. He'd been had. "Okay."

"So," Neal resumed, "persuasive. Not a cop. Able to vouch for you, close to you. And someone who could make you smile like _that_," he added, gesturing lazily at Peter with one hand.

Peter hadn't even realized that a little smile had crept across his face at the thought of his "go-between."

"That kind of narrows the field. It had to have been Elizabeth. Unless you made Diana go undercover again as your mistress or something?" Neal inquired

"Never thought of that," Peter said, smiling wider. "Yes, it was my amazing wife, whom I did _not _send, by the way. It was all her idea. She watched me strike out with Ellen and took matters into her own hands. Next thing I know, Ellen's in my house waiting to hear me out."

Something—fascination, maybe?— sparkled in Neal's eyes. "What did Elizabeth say?"

Peter sighed. "God only knows. When I asked her, she just said she had her ways and that I shouldn't worry my head about them. It was about that time that I realized it was probably something embarrassing and I was better off not knowing."

"Mmm," was Neal's only response. He looked as if he were about to say something further, but stopped himself.

"Ellen still wasn't too keen on talking to me," Peter continued. "She takes her secrets—and yours—very seriously."

"But you did convince her."

"El has her ways, I have mine," Peter said, shrugging.

"Oh, you do," Neal agreed. "And you're right—you really _don_'t want to know what Elizabeth said to her."

_The bastard. _"Damnit, I _knew _it!" Peter accused. "You already got the whole story from Ellen anyway. Why are you even asking me, then?"

"Because I like hearing _you _tell it," Neal said, and he sounded quite sincere, but then, when didn't he? "I would have guessed that Elizabeth was your go-between even if Ellen hadn't told me; a child could figure that one out. Anyway, there are two sides to every story. And you left out some key parts."

"Such as?" Peter asked warily, running through his conversation with Ellen and trying to remember what parts he'd rather Neal not know about.

"Such as when you got a little choked up. When you said you didn't know if you could live with it if something happened to me."

Neal had assumed Peter would try to minimize it. Maybe joke with Neal about how Ellen had been taken in by his acting skills. He hadn't expected Peter's stillness, the slight slump of his shoulders, as he sat there, lips pressed together in a tight, grim line, and stared, unseeing, at the near-darkness outside the windows.

"It's a good thing you have no poker face whatsoever," Neal added when the silence began to stretch out uncomfortably. "Ellen said either you were really, really worried about me—or you were the best damn actor she'd ever seen." He paused before trying a quip. "I told her it definitely wasn't the latter, so . . . ."

Peter cleared his throat the way people do when they're trying to buy time. Neal watched him and waited, starting to regret ever bringing this up

"By the time I talked to Ellen, I'd done enough research on Collins' reputation to make me worry," Peter said, finally bringing his eyes up to meet Neal's. The look on his face was bleak, almost desperate, and Neal felt a little chill run down his spine at the sight of it. Ellen had described the expression she'd seen on Peter's face, but her words hadn't done it justice. The emotion was too raw, too real, and Neal would never again question how Ellen had been so quickly convinced to give Peter that number.

You just didn't say no to a look like that.

"It would be bad enough if something happened to you," Peter said, voice carefully controlled. "But if it happened because of something _I_ did . . . ."

When it became apparent that Peter wasn't going to finish the thought, Neal spoke.

"It wouldn't have been. You're not responsible for everything, Peter. Especially me, given the kinds of things I get up to," he added in a lighter tone.

Peter was having none of it. "You ran because I told you to. That made it my responsibility."

"If I hadn't made so many mistakes along the way, you wouldn't have had to tell me to run," Neal shot back.

Peter didn't answer. The truth was, his sense of responsibility for Neal went back a lot further than maybe he realized. Certainly way further back than that day on the street when Kramer had brought the marshals to take Neal into custody. Maybe it went back to the beginning-the very beginning.

The words echoed in his mind, recalled with vivid clarity. I_ own you for four years. You okay with that?_

To debate whether Peter _ought _to feel responsible was pointless—because Peter _did. _And that wasn't going to change, no matter how much Neal tried to absolve him or argue against it.

"You know, I have an idea," he said, going for the deflection and not wanting to engage Neal on this topic any more. "Instead of trying to convince me that I shouldn't worry about you, why don't you resolve to do fewer things that give me reason to worry?"

Neal raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. If he'd noticed the shift in focus, he didn't mention it. "A novel idea." He considered it, then added in a serious tone, "You know, it's not that I'm actively trying to make you worry."

"I know. But maybe you could actively try to _not _make me worry."

"Can't make any guarantees, but I will try," Neal agreed. As promises went, it was about as much as one could hope for where Neal was concerned.

That had been a nice little moment—if Peter had been writing this, it would have made for a darn satisfying ending to this scene they were having. Unfortunately, he knew that Neal wasn't prepared to see this end yet. Not until he'd gotten the whole story. The whole _humiliating_ story.

Peter swallowed hard. The moment of reckoning was about to arrive.

TBC—last part coming up


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four – The Solidest Things**

Note: This is set just after Peter and Neal's return to New York, so events depicted in this season's subsequent episodes have not yet occurred in this narrative.

_**Author's Note—**__Unlike Peter in this story, I believe in putting the not-so-good news out there. So here goes: this story is taking a bit longer to tell than I anticipated. The bad news (or maybe good, depends on your perspective) is that this is not the last chapter. There will be one more after this one. The good news is that, if you are enjoying the story, you'll have more of it to enjoy. More good news: the last chapter is undergoing final editing and will be posted soon._

_Thanks for your patience in sticking with me and with this story. As a novice author, I value every reader and treasure every review, so thanks to all of you. Hope you enjoy….._

….

"**When friendships are real, they are not glass threads or frost work, but the solidest things we can know." **

— **Ralph Waldo Emerson, **_**Essays: First Series**_**  
**

….

The first time Peter had the thought, it rattled him.

That was when he was still in New York, listening in numb horror as Hughes told him that Collins had already gone after Neal, as the disastrous consequences of his mistake with the map struck him like a physical blow. Peter had steadfastly ignored it, then, and all throughout the seemingly endless flights to the island, as he stared unseeing out the window. Wondering if Neal was already Collins' prisoner, thanks to Peter's ineptitude. Later, in a darker, grimmer moment—on Cape Verde, after they'd learned that Collins had captured Neal but before they knew if they could save him—the thought returned, unbidden and in force.

Peter had wondered if maybe Neal wouldn't forgive him.

Immediately his mind had dismissed the very notion—and continued to dismiss it, each time it recurred. Because, despite his best efforts to push it aside, it recurred quite a lot. With alarming regularity.

That worry kept persisting, even when everything was mostly over, during the flight from Cape Verde to the Canary Islands.

Upon boarding the plane, Peter, not wanting to make a scene in front of Collins, had motioned to Neal's wrists. Neal eyed him, perplexed, and lifted his hands, whereupon Peter wordlessly unlocked the cuffs. Neal shot Peter a look of silent gratitude before the agent preceded him down the aisle—the small plane had just a center aisle and two seats on each side. Then Peter stowed his bag and climbed into the row on the right side, beckoning Neal to the aisle seat. Peter took the window seat for himself, so that he was sitting on Neal's left. Neal muttered a "thanks, Peter," as he sank down and closed his eyes, wincing in pain as he extended his injured leg out into the aisle and tried to get comfortable.

Of course, this arrangement violated every FBI rule on airplane transportation of a person in custody. The suspect was supposed to be restrained at all times. The suspect was not supposed to have easy access to the aisle and potential escape routes. Instead, the suspect was supposed to be the one hemmed in by the window on one side and a custodial agent on the other. Like Collins had done with McLeish, who had an unobstructed view of the tarmac as he sat, still seething over his misfortune, securely handcuffed in _his_ window seat. Collins was on his immediate left, between his prisoner and the aisle-across from Neal and Peter.

But Peter didn't care about the rules. Sitting on the aisle allowed Neal to stretch his leg out and gain a modicum of comfort. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. So what if Collins kept giving him appalled, scornful looks, muttering derisively under his breath about FBI agents who coddled convicted felons until they lost sight of what they were supposed to be all about. Peter ignored him.

Once they were in the air, Collins started.

"You're violating, protocol, Burke," he hissed, leaning forward so he could look across the aisle and jerking his head toward Neal, who sat between them.

Peter leaned forward and gave Neal a casual glance. He appeared to be asleep.

"He's not going anywhere. That _was _the point of your putting a bullet into his thigh, right? Or was that just for the hell of it? Kind of ironic to be lectured on protocol by an agent who gets off on shooting unarmed, nonviolent offenders while they're in custody," Peter said coolly, voice dripping with contempt.

Now that Collins had McLeish and this was nearly over, Peter didn't have to pretend to make nice with the man anymore, and it felt damn good.

"Tell you what," he continued. "You don't tell anyone that I removed Caffrey's handcuffs for the flight and let him sit on the aisle, and I won't tell anyone that you shot him in cold blood. That sound fair to you? And maybe, just maybe, if you keep your mouth shut, Caffrey here won't file a multimillion-dollar civil rights lawsuit against you and the FBI that'll have you looking for new employment five minutes after we land in New York."

"I'd testify," McLeish interjected quickly, throwing a venomous look at Collins.

"Shut up," Collins snapped, not even bothering to look at him. He was still glaring daggers at Peter. "Burke, if you think that you and _this_—"

"The good news is, if Caffrey _does_ decide to sue, I hear the Genoveses are on the lookout for new blood," Peter said thoughtfully, lip curling as he named one of the more active crime families in New York. "A vicious, unprincipled, trigger-happy bastard like you would fit right in with those guys. So, do we have a deal?"

The sight of Collins, face contorted with anger, rage flashing in his eyes, was the best thing Peter had seen in a long, long time.

During this exchange, Neal sat motionless between the two of them, his breathing deliberately even, his head tilted back, his eyes carefully closed. He looked asleep, but Peter would have bet a year's pay that Neal was (secretly) wide awake. His suspicions were confirmed after Collins settled back in his seat, staring straight ahead and ignoring Peter.

Neal didn't twitch, or speak, or open his eyes. But as Peter watched, Neal's mouth curved slowly into a smile; Peter could see that he was biting his lip to keep from laughing.

Peter had had the sudden urge to blurt it out, right then. To confess to Neal what he'd done, how imbecilic he'd been. That way, instead of having to brood and speculate about Neal's reaction, he'd _know. _

Except that Neal hadn't even asked. He'd been very quiet, too busy popping painkillers and trying, with little success, to nod off. He did not look like a man primed for a major emotional reveal; rather, he looked like a man who needed to sleep for a good long while. Anyway, Peter couldn't very well get into it with Collins sitting less than four feet away, could he? He didn't want to give the maniacal bastard the satisfaction of reliving that moment of triumph at Peter's expense.

No. So instead, Peter had a mental dialogue with himself.

_Neal's not the type to hold grudges. Neal wouldn't _not _forgive me if he knew. After all, I locked him up and took four years from him. He forgave me for that, didn't he?_

_Did he? _That was Peter's negative side countering.

_Of course he did. When I arrested him, he shook my hand and thanked me. Then he sent me birthday cards from prison._

_But arresting Neal-that was you doing your job, _Negative Peter answered. _Neal has always believed people (like himself, for example) should get dispensation for doing what they had to do, what the job required. This is different. This was not you doing your job—just the opposite, in fact. You led Collins right to him. You got him _shot. _Why _wouldn't _he hold that against you?_

But no. Neal didn't work that way. Well, he _could, _but Peter didn't think he _would. _At least, not where Peter was concerned.

Or so he told himself.

That didn't mean Neal wasn't going to look at Peter differently once he knew, though. Maybe he wouldn't trust in Peter's competence any more. Certainly this error had been an eye-opener for Peter.

Anyone who knew them both would say Neal was the cocky one. And he was—so much so that Peter thought it must be imprinted on his DNA—_the swagger gene_. Yet Peter was not without his own brand of . . . well, he preferred to think of it as confidence, not cockiness, and he didn't habitually flaunt it like Neal did. But it was there nonetheless, an innate self-assurance born of experience; it subtly informed everything he did and maybe it had made Peter just a little too comfortable. The incident with Collins had served as a harsh reminder that even veteran FBI agents could make life-altering mistakes, _rookie mistakes_, when they failed to take precautions, when they failed to account for all the possibilities.

* * *

Peter forced his thoughts back to the here and now, where Neal was giving Peter his most earnest, pleading look.

"Now, can we please get back to your story?"

"The story that, thanks to Ellen, you already know," Peter complained.

"Not this part!" Neal protested. He sounded very much like a five-year-old moaning about some harsh parental decree.

"Fine. What do you want to know?"

"Why, everything, of course," Neal said, putting on a charming smile.

Despite the anxiety he felt about what was to come, Peter couldn't resist needling him. "I would think the _master criminal_ could figure it out himself."

"As I mentioned before, I like hearing _you _tell it," Neal said patiently. "But, okay, if you want to go that way. Let's start with this: you couldn't have traced that call." He was positive on this point. "There was no way."

"No, I didn't trace it," Peter agreed. "But I did record it."

"Agent Burke!" Neal said, feigning horror. "I was afraid of that. Taping phone conversations without the consent of the other party. Did I induce you to break the law?"

"New York is a one-party consent state," Peter said loftily. "Federal law's the same. So long as one party to the conversation consents—that was me, by the way—then it's not a crime to record it."

"New York's a one-party consent state," Neal commented, "but is Cape Verde? Because if the other party is located in a jurisdiction that requires _two-party _consent, then—"

"Look at you, going all Johnny Cochran on me with the wiretap rules," Peter grumbled. "You, of all people, are going to question me on a point of law?"

"Hey, I've never claimed to be completely law-abiding, but—"

"But 'allegedly' _is_ your favorite word."

Neal fixed Peter with a solemn look. "That's not what I was going to say. I was going to echo the wise words of Theodore Roosevelt, who said no man is above the law." A moment later, he added, with just a trace of smugness, "I'm pretty sure he would even include FBI agents in there."

"No doubt. But what I did wasn't illegal," Peter insisted. He gave a little head shake. "Most people would have said it was _crazy_, but not illegal."

"Peter Burke, embracing the crazy."

"Which is crazy in and of itself," Peter sighed.

"It's what sets you apart, Peter." Neal's admiration was audible. "But back to the story. We're finally getting to the good part. You recorded our conversation. But what exactly did that get you?"

"Hmm. What _did_ it get me?" Peter mused in his most exaggerated _gosh, what could the answer be _tone. He rested his chin on one hand, adopting a Thinker-like pose worthy of Rodin that Neal would appreciate. "What ever could I _possibly_ have gleaned from that call?" He tilted his head to the side with a smirk, threw a challenging look at Neal, and then shut up.

Neal being Neal, of course, he was more than ready to think it through on his own, though he couldn't refrain from a jibe.

"Making your consultant do all the work, eh?" Neal shook his head. "No wonder you were so desperate to come find me; you've gotten lazy. It's kind of sad, really."

"No, the really sad thing would be if my consultant's brain had turned to mush after six weeks of tropical lounging and mai-tai's," Peter replied, without missing a beat. "If he'd reached the point where he couldn't put the clues together to figure out something as simple as how I tracked him using a phone call."

"Mush. Ha, ha, very funny." Neal smiled wryly, refusing to be baited. "Not likely."

"So prove it. Surely my extremely clever consultant can deduce the clues I got from the recording."

"Okay. Well, the _surf, _for one thing," Neal said instantly. "You would have heard the waves crashing." He jumped out of his chair and paced, like a kid too excited by his discovery to sit still, forgetting that he wasn't supposed to be putting weight on that leg. Peter watched him with a smile on his face, enjoying the lightning-quick mental process that was quintessential Neal.

He'd forgotten how much he missed this, missed watching Neal's mind work. Even when he'd been chasing him, all those years ago, back when Neal had still been a mystery man nicknamed _James Bonds_ and then just _Caffrey—_not to mention a goddamned thorn in his side, by any name_—_Peter had secretly reveled in how brilliant his quarry was. It had made Peter's job exponentially harder, sure, but that didn't mean he couldn't still appreciate it. Grudgingly.

And now, now that they worked together, Peter got to watch Neal up close—and to reap the benefits—instead of having to try to piece it together later, after Neal had gotten away with . . . whatever he'd gotten away with.

Yeah, Peter had missed that. (Not the _Neal getting away with things _part—the _watching Neal work _part.)

He hadn't realized that his mind had wandered until Neal's voice brought him back.

"And thunder!" Neal added, stopping and turning sharply back to face Peter with a hint of triumph in his voice. "There were storms and . . . and thunder that night, right?"

Peter nodded.

Neal spoke in a rush, thinking out loud. "So you figured I was on an island—of course, one with no extradition, that's a given—and you could cross-check the weather records and—" Neal broke off abruptly, frowning. "That would narrow things down, but it doesn't seem like enough to pinpoint our location, though."

"It wasn't. You're missing the last clue. And it was a big one."

As he mulled it over, Neal resumed pacing, more slowly now as he pondered the possibilities. He'd been standing on a deserted beach at four o'clock in the morning. Of course he hadn't said anything that referred to their location, like, _Wish you were here on Cape Verde—oops! _And yet, it had to have been something about the phone call. Peter had already conceded that Mozzie had completely covered their tracks.

Peter was looking at him, a little smugly, as Neal tried to figure it out. Finally, Neal was forced to admit defeat, giving a helpless shrug as he sat down again, hissing in pain and knocking back a big gulp of wine.

"I give. What am I missing?"

Peter let himself enjoy the fact that, for once, Neal really didn't know. "I sure hope brain-mush hasn't set in," he said, a grave expression on his face.

"Your concern is heartwarming, but my brain is just fine," Neal told him tartly. "So, the big clue was . . . ."

"Church bells." Peter was careful to dole out the hints slowly. He'd almost forgotten how diverting it was to make Neal work for things.

_Just another Neal-related thing he'd missed._

"Church bells," Neal repeated blankly. His brow furrowed. "Churches . . . aren't exactly a rare occurrence."

"This one was," Peter told him. "Maybe you should have immersed yourself in the local history and culture a bit more instead of canoodling with your girlfriend."

"Please. I can multitask when needed," Neal countered. He looked mildly affronted before adding, "And she wasn't my girlfriend."

Peter raised his eyebrows suggestively. "Sure looked that way to me."

Neal was indignant. "You were there for all of five minutes. Truth is, we didn't have time to get that far," he added, a little sadly.

"Six weeks isn't long enough for Neal Caffrey to put the moves on?"

"In this case, no," Neal admitted. "Maya was surprisingly immune to my charms for quite a while." He got a faraway look in his eye. "She actually said I was dangerous—can you believe that?"

"Smart woman," Peter observed, his estimation of Maya rising several notches.

Neal mock-glared at him. "If _Mr._ _I-haven't-flirted-in-ten-years_ is finished critiquing my romantic pursuits, I'd like to get back to the matter at hand. Remember? Church bells? Some apparently very special church bells?"

"Okay, okay," Peter said. "On this part, Jones and Diana did the heavy lifting." He described their meeting at Peter's house, breaking down the audio and using weather reports to limit the possibilities, Jones at the laptop identifying the tone of the bells (_Spanish brass!_) and, finally, the link to Cape Verde.

When Peter had finished, Neal looked impressed in spite of himself. "That's good work," he admitted.

Peter nodded, looking satisfied. "My agents are the best."

Neal couldn't argue with that. He drank some more wine and contemplated the view for a brief interval as Peter waited uneasily for the part that came next.

The part he was dreading.

Neal was waiting, too. Whatever had Peter so freaked out hadn't come up yet, that much was transparently obvious. Neal could practically see the tension running through Peter—like he expected the wrath of God to descend at any moment.

"All right, now I know how _you_ found us," Neal said finally, because, really, somebody had to move this along and, judging by the look on his face, that someone sure as hell wasn't going to be Peter. "What I can't figure out is how _Collins _found us."

…...

Peter Burke was a man of integrity. Honesty was one of his core values, something his parents had drummed into him from childhood, something he prided himself on. Unlike Neal, his first instinct was generally to tell the truth. But now, as Neal sat there, with that open, expectant look on his face, Peter came to an uncomfortable realization.

_Never in his life had he wanted to lie as much as he did right now. _

It felt disturbingly like being a teenager again, coming home after curfew, and knowing his parents were going to be disappointed. Wanting to lie, to make up some phantom car trouble, but knowing in his heart that it was wrong. And wasn't that a bizarre reversal of his usual dynamic with Neal—usually it was _Neal_ with the secret, _Neal_ trying to evade discussing something that would make Peter crazy.

It wouldn't be that hard to lie, either. He could say he wasn't sure. Or he could concoct some plausible explanation—one in which he didn't look like a rank amateur.

Peter wanted to, but . . . no. He couldn't. He wouldn't. He was the kind of person who owned up to his mistakes. And Neal deserved the truth—no matter how bad it made Peter look.

"Collins. Yeah, that's . . . that's pretty . . . uh . . . interesting," Peter said, thinking grimly, _Here it comes._

"Look, Peter," Neal said, deciding to confront this head-on. "Let's get real, here. Collins may be scarier than you—in his own, special _I'm a crazy, violent, psycho _kind of way—but he isn't even half as smart as you."

_Circumstances would say otherwise, _Peter thought, sighing inwardly.

"So it stands to reason that he used you somehow," Neal went on.

Peter averted his eyes, looking down at the table. He didn't answer.

Neal _knew_ he was right about Collins. The man was ruthless and single-minded and vicious, qualities which were no doubt useful in a bounty hunter. But he had none of Peter's brilliance, none of that razor-sharp intellect that enabled Peter to keep up with Neal and, even, sometimes (Neal had to admit) stay a step ahead of him. So in Neal's mind, that meant only one thing: Collins hadn't tracked Neal down using his own acumen. He'd tracked Neal by using Peter's.

That _had _to be it. That was the awful truth that had Peter looking more nervous, twitchy, and embarrassed than Neal had ever seen him.

_But how?_

…...

Glancing at Peter, Neal was struck by how tired he looked. _No, not tired,_ he corrected himself. _Weary._

Weary was one of those words that seemed a trifle dramatic: something you saw in books, but that people rarely used in real life. Yet it seemed to fit here. Peter's body language, his posture, the lines on his face, accentuated by the shadows in the room—they all spoke of something more than a simple late night. They were symptomatic of a bone-deep _weariness, _of long-term stress that couldn't be hidden.

Neal wondered, for the first time, how many sleepless nights Peter had endured over the past six weeks. Worrying that Neal would be found. Or, possibly, worrying that he wouldn't be.

Neal wondered which scenario would have frightened Peter more.

Not that he would ever ask, or that Peter would answer if he did. Peter hated melodrama and whatever angst he'd felt was clearly not something he wanted to discuss.

One thing Neal did know—but only because June had told him—was that Peter had been here, to his apartment, after Neal had disappeared. And not in an investigative capacity, with a cadre of Marshals and ERT agents trailing behind. No, he'd come after the initial flurry of official visits—just Peter, showing up unannounced on June's doorstep, looking awkward and hesitant.

Or so June had described it.

* * *

_Seeing June again for the first time had brought a rush of emotions Neal hadn't expected. While focusing on his new life, he'd staunchly refused to let himself dwell on anything he'd left behind in the old one._

_As he'd said to Mozzie: what good would regret do?_

_So June was like so many aspects of his life in New York—he only realized how much he'd missed her when he saw her again. _

_June's welcome was, truth to tell, a little overwhelming—heartfelt and unconditional. Not like the greetings he'd received from nearly everybody else, the ones he'd come to think of as 'welcome, buts." These came from Random FBI Agent #3, or Miscellaneous Clerk #2 at the office. There were plenty of such people (and in truth they were neither random nor miscellaneous, as Neal made it a point to cultivate everyone he could; you never knew when someone would come in handy). Most of them welcomed him back, but hesitantly, and the look in their eyes always held something else, something unspoken._

Welcome back . . ._ but why did you run?_

Welcome back . . ._ but how can we ever trust you again?_

Welcome back . . . _but how could you do that to Agent Burke?_

Welcome back . . . _but . . ._

_They never voiced the questions, just acknowledged his return, but Neal knew what they were thinking, none of it flattering to him. He brushed it off, of course. None of these people knew why he'd run and none ever could know, or it would ruin Peter, who'd already risked more for him than he ever should have had to. And Neal cared much more about Peter's reputation than his own, so he only smiled and thanked them. He said he was glad to be back and, without a second thought, accepted the unspoken doubts and questions as the price to be paid for protecting Peter. It was such a small price, and one he would be willing to pay a thousand times over. _

_June, bless her, had no doubts, no questions. The hug she gave him was long and breathtaking—in the literal sense of momentarily squeezing the air from his lungs. June was deceptively strong._

_Come to think of it, June was deceptively . . . a lot of things._

_She led him to the couch, fussing over his leg which, he assured her, was healing nicely. And yet it was a relief to sit down and give it a rest . . . . _

"_We must have a celebratory drink, my dear," she said over her shoulder, motioning him to stay where he was as she walked over to the cabinet._

"_I'd like that."_

_He'd expected her to go for the wine—June had a top-notch collection. But she surprised him by returning with a tray containing two crystal tumblers and a bottle of—something that wasn't wine. _

"_Wine is nice, but I've always felt that a real celebration calls for something stronger—and I have just the thing," June announced. As she came closer, he could see the glasses were etched with a beautiful, ivy-like, pattern around Byron's initials—BLE—and the bottle wasn't really a bottle, it was . . . . _

_She heard his sharp intake of breath and smiled inwardly._

"_June, th-that's . . . that's Dalmore." _

"_It is; of course, you'd know that," she said, pleased and proud that he'd recognized it. June couldn't help a self-congratulatory grin; she'd made the ever-poised Neal Caffrey stammer and that was a rare feat indeed._

_Neal contemplated the decanter in awe. He'd first seen a picture of the Dalmore when he was quite a bit younger. He'd been researching a wealthy mark (who just happened to have a weakness for rare spirits) by learning everything he could about the most expensive Scotches in the world. Later Neal had glimpsed the real thing, once, in the private collection of someone whose home he'd entered by . . . well, by employing means Peter would _not_ have approved of. At the time, though, Neal had been far too rushed to pilfer it—or even to drink any of it. Pity._

_The Dalmore was fifty years old, bottled in 1978 in specially designed crystal decanters, and a favorite of Scotch connoisseurs the world over. Only sixty bottles existed._

_And the last time Neal had checked, they'd cost around twelve thousand dollars per._

_He shook his head; this was too much. "You don't have to—"_

"_I thought I'd never see you again," she said simply. As if that explained everything. As if nothing else needed to be said._

"_Byron and I purchased this many years ago, and we certainly meant to drink it, but the perfect occasion never came along." She stopped and her smile took on a touch of brittleness. "Now he's gone, but it's still here—and so, against all odds, are you, Neal. I don't want to wait any longer."_

_He tried one more time. "But, June, I know how expensive that is, it's—"_

"_It's a very special occasion, deserving of a very special bottle of Scotch. It's one of a kind, and so are you."_

_Neal acquiesced. June might be wildly overestimating his worth, but she was a woman of taste and refinement; who was he to try and talk her out of it? _

_She poured for them both, handed Neal a glass._

"_To old friends and new beginnings," she said, raising her glass. Neal followed and then sipped. _

_They both let out simultaneous 'ahs' of pure wonder at the first taste. Neal let it roll over his tongue for a few seconds before he swallowed, finally letting it burn down his throat and closing his eyes in ecstasy. So many flavors, so full-bodied, such a delectable finishing kick. It would probably ruin every other Scotch for him for the rest of his life, but damn if it wasn't worth it a hundred times over. _

"_My God, June, that's . . . it's . . ." Neal was, quite uncharacteristically, at a loss for words. He hastily took another belt, savoring a taste he knew he'd never forget. He realized he was grinning like a fool._

"_It's not bad, eh?" she said, grinning right back at him._

"_It's stunning. Thank you."_

"_Thank _you_, Neal." He stared at her, confused—why was she thanking him?—and she explained. "Thank you for finding your way back—and giving me a reason to finally open it."_

_In typical June fashion, she was far too discreet to ask any questions, but Neal gave her the Cliff's notes version of his six-week vacation, anyway—she deserved it. And June had a few things to tell Neal, as well. About the aftermath of his escape._

_And about Peter._

_First, Neal tried to apologize for what he'd put her through—the endless visits , endless searches, and endless questions—courtesy of both the Marshals and the FBI. It was the downside of housing a convicted felon. _

_June merely smiled; she was the rare sort of woman who appreciated the upside of housing a convicted felon far too much to let the downside bother her._

"_Don't be ridiculous. As I'm sure you know, it's not the first time I've had law enforcement in this house," she said, punctuating the words with an elegant shrug. "And it probably won't be the last."_

_He gave her a rueful look. "Actually, I hope it is."_

_She laughed. "They don't fluster me. Actually for feds, they were quite civil. I think Peter made it clear in no uncertain terms that you would never have told me anything, and they behaved accordingly."_

_Neal smiled at that. "I'm glad to hear it. Sounds like something Peter would do."_

"_Yes, that's Peter . . ." she said thoughtfully. "He came here twice; did you know?"_

"_You mean as part of the investigation?"_

"_No, later, when things had calmed down."_

_Neal's gaze sharpened. "I didn't know. Why did he come?"_

_June hesitated. "A good question. The first time he came, he asked if he could go upstairs, to your apartment. I said, of course, but it wasn't really in a state for visitors. I think he thought I'd dismantled it—he looked so disappointed. But I explained that I'd just asked Karen cover everything to minimize the dust." _

"_I found it far too depressing," she said, regarding Neal with her keen, dark eyes. "I couldn't go in there, myself." _

"_But Peter did."_

"_Yes. He spent some time up there alone, touching nothing from what I could see when I peeked in later, after he'd gone. When he came down the stairs, he looked . . . I don't know, lost? Not like himself. To be honest, I was worried about him." _

_The image of Peter haunting his abandoned apartment, not searching for clues but just wandering alone among the dust-covered furniture, stirred up emotions that Neal didn't want to examine too closely. It was deeply disquieting because it was so very . . . _not _Peter._

"_Frankly, he looked like he could use some company," June continued, "but he said he couldn't stay that day. The next time he came, though, I insisted he have a drink with me, and he agreed. And no wine for him—he wanted the hard stuff."_

"_No Dalmore?" Neal inquired with the barest hint of a smile._

_June shook her head. "I have a soft spot for Peter, but . . . no. Not the right time."_

_She paused, a troubled look in her eyes as she remembered. "He was a little . . . distant at first, but then he opened up a bit and we just . . . talked. Not about you—we talked about everything _but_ you. Peter asked how I was, he asked about Cindy, and Samantha. And then he surprised me."_

_At Neal's questioning look, she explained, "He asked about Byron."_

"_Why did that surprise you?" Neal asked, puzzled._

"_Peter has known about Byron from the very first day we met," June said. "Yet he had never asked me about him—not once."_

_That's because Peter probably pulled Byron's file within 24 hours of hearing his name, Neal thought with a sigh. The agent would have considered it part of his due diligence; when it came to Neal and his living arrangements, no detail would be too small for him to examine. Peter was thorough that way (sometimes frighteningly so, in Neal's opinion)._

"_He didn't ask me about anything Byron had done," June said, and she must have been reading Neal's mind because she added, with a dismissive wave of her hand, "I would assume Peter knew all of that."_

"_A safe assumption," Neal agreed. They shared a smile at the habitual efficiency that was the very essence of Peter._

"_Peter had so many questions that day, but not about what Byron had done. He wanted to know what he was like, what _he and I_ were like, what my favorite memories of him were. How he'd changed since I'd known him—because Byron did get out of the life, Neal, I think you know that." She stopped and let out a sigh. "How I learned to get along without him."_

_Their eyes met for a long moment and neither one spoke._

"_Then I made a toast," June said, and Neal's throat closed up at the barely-suppressed emotion in her voice. "'To remembering the past,' I said. And Peter added, 'To hoping for the future.'"_

"_Neither of us had mentioned your name, but we didn't need to. That moment was when I realized that Peter was set on getting you back, somehow. I knew, from the first day, that you didn't want to run, and it quickly became obvious that Peter didn't want to chase you. He was unhappy, but not angry, not betrayed like he would have been if he'd been blindsided by your leaving."_

_Neal just met her gaze steadily, nodding but saying nothing. Peter's role in instigating the escape was not Neal's secret to tell. June didn't need to be told, anyway._

"_So I had known all of that. What I didn't know until that day was that he hadn't given up on finding you—and not so he could lock you up, either. He was determined to bring you back, to undo what had been done."_

_Neal was reminded, suddenly, of his own words—to Elizabeth, before he'd been about to leave town with Kate. _

_Just trying to fix what I broke, he'd told her. _

_Peter had been determined to do the same._

…_..._

_Together, Neal and June had gotten more than a little drunk that night. _

_When it came to alcohol, Neal knew his limits exactly. As a rule, he never got drunk because it never served his purpose to be out of control. Over the years, he'd become an expert at _seeming_ intoxicated, without actually _being_ intoxicated—it was a valuable skill when you were conning someone. But this was June; he could afford to let his guard down, and, hell, if you were going to over-imbibe, you might as well do it with a twelve thousand dollar bottle of Scotch. _

_So he drank more than he had in quite a while, since his first night on the island, in fact. When he'd been trying to come to grips with all he'd lost—while trying to remind himself of what he'd gained—and he'd thought, stupidly, that the bottle might help, on both counts. _

_He'd broken his own rule that night and gotten roaringly, smashingly, embarrassingly drunk. Mozzie, loyal as always, had made sure he made it home from the bar; he'd said nothing, but Neal was dimly aware of his disapproval, and his worry. Neal didn't remember much from the aftermath, but he did recall promising Mozzie he wouldn't make a habit of this; it was just that he'd been so excited about celebrating their newfound freedom, about christening their new life, that one thing had led to another . . . ._

"_You'd better not make a habit of it," Mozzie had said, his voice mild. Mozzie knew it was bullshit, that Neal wasn't drinking to celebrate; he was drinking to forget, and that was the worst reason in the world to get drunk. But Mozzie was too good a friend to say any of that. "Because if you do make a habit of it, the owners of the local watering holes are going to have to adjust their deliveries, and it's a long haul to the mainland, my friend. Leave some for the rest of us."_

_Trust Mozzie to say the right thing._

* * *

_And what,_ Neal wondered, returning to the present, _was the right thing to say here? _How should he deal with this . . . whatever _this_ was with Peter?

Neal considered himself an expert in dealing with Peter; really, thanks to years of study and practice, he liked to think that he had the equivalent of a Ph.D. in dealing with Peter Burke. So it was disconcerting to realize that, in this case, he just wasn't sure.

As Neal looked out the window, still able to glimpse Peter's anxious face in his peripheral vision, the only thing he knew for sure was that he needed to tread carefully. They were about to enter murkier, choppier waters; Neal considered various strategies for navigating them with the least risk.

It only took him a few seconds to sort through the options and make his choice.

TBC—final chapter coming up, I swear, for real this time. Soon.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five – Brand New Ending**

Note: This is set just after Peter and Neal's return to New York, so events depicted in this season's subsequent episodes have not yet occurred in this story.

….

"**Although no one can go back and make a brand new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand new ending."  
― Carl Bard **

* * *

Peter watched Neal staring out into space. Was he merely pensive? Or maybe confused? One thing was certain: his near-giddiness of earlier was gone, but Peter wasn't sure why. This was one of those times when he would have paid serious money to know what Neal was thinking.

He knew he should have been prepared for this. Of course, Neal, who always wanted to know everything, was going to wonder how it had all gone down; of course Peter inevitably was going to have to tell him. Peter had known that; yet, somehow, he'd never quite gotten around to figuring out just how he would explain it all to Neal. Instead, he'd just kept . . . postponing it. He'd never been one to ignore a problem and hope it would go away. But in a sense, that was exactly what he'd done, and as a result, now here he was, stuck trying to improvise, to think of what to say and how to say it, something he should have been rehearsing so that—

Neal spoke first. _Probably tired of waiting, _Peter thought.

"I meant what I said: Collins just wasn't bright enough to find me on his own. No way. I know he used you somehow," Neal repeated, then shot him a look that was unreadable; there was an emotion there, but Peter couldn't decipher what it was. "Peter. Did you—please don't tell me that you called my pager from a phone they could trace."

Peter shook his head. "Burner phone."

"No, right. Okay," Neal said, nodding. "Then . . . ." his voice trailed off as he appeared lost in thought. "Wait. Ah. I think I know! He hacked your travel reservations and—and then connived somehow to get there first. That must be how it happened."

He looked at Peter again, with that odd expression on his face. Was it merely expectant, or was it almost . . . hopeful? It was then that Peter had a thought that jolted him.

_Did Neal already know?_

_Maybe he'd found out from Jones and Diana somehow? _Peter's mind raced. _They wouldn't have told him, though, would they? But Neal was . . . well, Neal. He didn't need to be __**told**__ things. Maybe he just suspected, because he was so goddamned smart. _

But regardless of which it was, it almost seemed like Neal had carefully crafted an alternative explanation for Peter—one that was not only plausible, but mostly guilt-free. Had he, in true Neal-fashion, concocted the lie that Peter had promised himself he wouldn't tell? Served it up on the proverbial silver platter for Peter—and given Peter the implicit approval to adopt it as his own?

Peter was struck, suddenly, by how Neal had phrased it. Neal hadn't said,_ Is that how it happened? _like you would expect him to. He'd said, _That must be how it happened._ A statement, not a question. And he was still sitting there, with that peculiar mixture of almost-hope and . . . something else on his face, as if he were just waiting for Peter to agree with him so they could move on.

It was exactly the kind of thing Neal would do. Really, it was Neal pulling a con—albeit with the express purpose of covering for Peter. Formulating a lie that could convincingly masquerade as the truth. Manipulating Peter into going along with said lie, so he'd be protected.

Doing it in such a shrewd way that Neal looked innocent and Peter looked . . . well, competent.

If he was right, if Neal really _was _trying to help him save face by absolving Peter of blame for his own idiocy, it was gratifying (and, of course, sneaky). But Peter wasn't going to take the easy way out—even if Neal wanted him to.

"Neal." Neal's expression changed at the commanding note in Peter's voice. "You already knew about what happened with Ellen. Do you know this part of the story, too?"

For a long moment, Neal stared at him, unblinking, and Peter could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he considered why Peter would ask the question. "No." Peter thought he heard disappointment in Neal's voice.

"You sure about that?"

"I swear," Neal insisted, raising his right hand to pantomime oath-swearing. "Though," he added, _sotto voce_, "I'm starting to think I'd be better off _not _knowing this part."

Peter ignored the last comment. "Your theory is a solid one. But there were no reservations to hack. I had no plans to go to Cape Verde until I found out Collins had already gone, until I had no choice. He already knew where you were."

"He bugged your phone?" Neal demanded, looking angry _(and still, also, possibly just a little hopeful? _Peter wasn't sure).

"No."

"Then how?" The words were said almost unwillingly, like Neal had to say them—but didn't really want to.

Peter took a deep breath. "Collins said I wasn't being . . . forthcoming. He suspected I was looking for you."

"Which you were. So he . . . what?" Neal had another thought. "He thought you were lying to him—of course. Did he interrogate you? _Christ_, Peter—did he _polygraph_ you?"

_Shit. _If he had, that would be really bad, Neal knew. The mere thought of the words _Peter _and _polygraph _in the same sentence was enough to flood his chest with fear. Peter was about as adept at lying as he was at flirting—in other words, mostly hopeless. The idea of straight-arrow Peter being able to beat a lie detector was just inconceivable. Even worse, Peter failing a polygraph, being on record as lying about an ongoing investigation—that was the kind of thing that could get Peter fired. Very easily.

He could picture it in his mind. Peter, hooked up to the apparatus, tension in every muscle, the pen jumping on the paper strip—_and the resulting lines looking like a seismograph during a 9.5 magnitude earthquake._

Peter looked alarmed, too, like he hadn't even thought of that possibility. "No."

"Thank God. Did he bug the house, then?"

"No. But he did _come_ to the house."

Neal frowned. "Oh, hell. I'm sorry. That can't have been fun—to have him barging in on you at home."

"I wasn't there. El was."

"Then I'm even more sorry," Neal said, looking stricken. "But I still don't understand—"

Peter rubbed his forehead and plunged in. "There was . . . there was a map."

"Excuse me?" Neal said.

So many times, when people said _excuse me, _they were being sarcastic, or arch. They had heard what you'd said perfectly well, but were making a point about how ridiculous it was. But other times, when people said _excuse me_, they meant it quite literally. Because they truly could not believe they had heard you correctly. They thought there must be some mistake.

This was one of _those _times_. _

_And, oh yeah, there had been one hell of a mistake._

"There was a map." Peter repeated glumly. _Nice job with the passive voice there, _he couldn't help thinking_. _He ran his finger convulsively over the neck of the bottle, up and down and around, watching as bits of the label peeled away from the glass with the motion.

"A map? A map of what?" Neal inquired. Peter glanced at him; a little line had appeared between his eyebrows as he frowned.

"The world," Peter said. His voice had gotten lower without him realizing it.

"I see," Neal said, but he really didn't, Peter knew—not yet. His frown had deepened, and his manner was tentative. "Studying for the national geography bee?"

Peter shook his head mutely.

"Practicing your international capitals?" Neal ventured; he was going for flippant—and failing.

"No."

Neal looked a question at him.

"I was using the map to . . . track you."

"Oookay," Neal prompted. His voice was carefully neutral, even gentle—the kind of tone one might use to avoid spooking a nervous animal.

"I was making notes on places where I thought you might go . . . and where I was reasonably sure you hadn't gone." Peter looked up to see Neal watching him, but now with slightly narrowed eyes. He took a deep, fortifying breath and looked down at the table again.

"When we analyzed the audio of the phone call, when we realized you must be in Cape Verde, we were . . . I was—I was pretty excited that we'd figured it out."

"I can imagine," Neal responded, his tone still calm and even, but Peter could sense an undercurrent of . . . _something._

"I grabbed a pen and I . . . I circled Cape Verde on the map. And told Jones and Diana we needed to figure out how to get you back."

When he looked up again at Neal, Neal's eyes weren't narrowed anymore. They were wide open and unblinking, filled with either disbelief or horror. _Maybe both, _Peter thought resignedly.

"Whoa, whoa, waaaaaiiit a minute, Peter," Neal said, holding up a hand, stop-sign fashion, in the universal gesture, favored by non-native speakers everywhere that said, _I'm don't know what the hell you are talking about. Slow down._

"You're—you're conducting a clandestine search, on your own time, for a wanted fugitive who just happens to be your former CI, which means some suspect you of favoritism. Your primary goals are to make sure that, one, no one knows you are conducting this search and, two, that no one else from the FBI finds him first. Would you say that's accurate?"

At times like this, Peter thought that, in another life, Neal would have made a hell of a prosecutor. But of course he didn't say that.

"Yes."

"So, knowing all this, you left a . . . an annotated map of the world i_n your house,_ with all the locations you'd eliminated crossed out _and my actual location circled?_" Neal said. His earlier calm seemed to have deserted him as his voice began to rise. "_You actually did that?_"

Peter nodded, wincing, but stayed quiet. What could he say? _Wow, it sounds so bad when you say it?_

_Because it really, really did. It sounded beyond bad. It sounded horrible. It sounded like the most senseless thing he'd ever done in his life._

_And maybe it was._

"Oh, my—oh, my God," Neal said, running both hands through his hair. He got up again, pacing again—his limp more pronounced now—but this time his movements had a disturbing, almost manic quality. His eyes darted around the room a little wildly as he lurched, like everything had shifted and he suddenly didn't recognize the world around him. Peter watched him anxiously and tried to decide if he should say anything—or just let Neal vent for a while.

Finally Peter said the first thing that came into his head—because he was honestly concerned about him— "Neal, why don't you sit down while we talk. That can't be helping your leg any."

Neal ignored him and just kept going. He'd started muttering under his breath. Peter couldn't quite make out the words, though, admittedly, he wasn't trying that hard.

It was bizarre to see Neal so utterly dumbfounded—Neal, who was too smart for his own good, who never lost his composure, who was so _unsurprisable_ because more often than not, he was two steps ahead of you. Normally, Peter would have taken pride in catching Neal off guard. But not today.

There was no glory to be had in doing something so asinine that even your incredibly imaginative partner couldn't possibly envision it.

_Screw honesty, _Peter thought. _I should have told him Collins hacked my travel reservations._ Instead, he said, "Yeah. I know. I screwed up, big-time." Why even try to defend the indefensible?

"Hell, yeah," Neal exclaimed fervently, still looking aghast at the whole situation, "but I was also referring to _me_. This is a failure on many levels. Have I taught you nothing at all? I have done a really terrible job of inculcating you with the principles of subterfuge."

_You've had your own problems with hiding evidence, _Peter thought. He recalled the flight data recorder the NYPD had found in Neal's apartment, but of course Peter didn't mention it. He didn't want Neal thinking about Kate right now. Neal didn't do it often, so far as Peter knew, but when he did, he got morose and quiet. And when Neal was quiet was when Peter worried about him most of all.

Anyway, this was about Peter's mistake, not Neal's.

"But you're not—" Neal broke off abruptly, because he realized he'd been about to blurt out, _You're not that stupid_, and he just couldn't say that to Peter. "You're not serious," he finished awkwardly.

Peter's gaze was steely—and he'd seen right through Neal with it. "No. Go on. Finish what you were going to say. '_You're not that stupid.' _Isn't that what you were going to say?"

"No. I was thinking it," Neal admitted, "but I wasn't going to say it. Because you're not."

"This time, I was."

Neal shook his head. He'd stopped pacing and was now leaning on the chair at the far end of the table, letting it take some of his weight.

"I never thought he could get a warrant!" Peter said, livid again at the memory. "In fact, I still have my doubts about that. I mean, what was the basis? I'd love to see that affidavit of probable cause."

"What, you think he's got a judge in his pocket?" Neal asked, momentarily distracted from the sheer, mind-boggling insanity of Peter and his marked-up map.

Peter shrugged, disgusted. "It wouldn't be the first time we've seen that. I had plans to look into it, but I didn't have time. And it doesn't matter now. The last thing we want to do is make waves on this."

Neal sat down again, grunting at a sudden shooting pain in his leg, and rested his head in his hands. At Peter's insistence, he'd learned more than he'd ever wanted to about warrant law during their time together—starting with their very first case—but in light of Peter's stunning revelation, it was hard to focus on legal technicalities at the moment. "So. Wow. You just . . . left the map there for anyone to find."

"For God's sake, Neal, it's not like I posted it on the bulletin board in the office," Peter muttered, chagrined. "It was hidden _in my house._"

"Not well enough," Neal said in a low voice, almost to himself.

Peter sighed. Neal was right; there was no denying it.

"But . . . but you should have burned it," Neal said plaintively, in a _how do you not know this _voice. It wasn't accusatory, though, just mildly reproving. He'd lifted his head up to gaze out the window; at least he'd gone from looking appalled to merely contemplative. "It's the only truly reliable way to eliminate incriminating evidence. Because even the cleverest hiding place can be revealed, given enough time. And, as I know from personal experience, shredding is really not—"

"Yes, Neal, I know that. I was incredibly foolish. I don't know what I was thinking. Correction: I wasn't thinking at all. And in the future, I will be sure to—no, wait. We're never going to be in this position again, so I don't even want to discuss it."

"I agree wholeheartedly," Neal said. He was observing Peter once again, looking relaxed again, loose-limbed, sprawled in the chair.

Peter glanced at him, surprised and a little bit wary. Just like that, Neal's agitation had dissipated, replaced by his customary sangfroid. That was Neal, though. He so rarely lost control; it stood to reason that when he did, it wouldn't last. "You agree? With which part?"

"That we don't need to discuss it. Hey, you made a mistake," Neal said, and Peter could hear the carefully calibrated nonchalance in his voice. "Granted, it was an unbelievably colossal mistake, a mistake of epic proportions, the kind of mistake that—"

"Yes, thank you for reminding me, Neal. I'd forgotten." Peter gave him a dark look before adding sarcastically, "It's always nice when a friend tries to make you feel better."

"—but the ending was still happy. And I'd be a hypocrite if I condemned you too harshly," Neal finished, voice patient. "Speaking as someone who may have . . . made a few mistakes in my day, as well."

"_May have_?" Peter repeated.

"Okay, point taken," Neal acknowledged, a ghost of a smile flitting across his face finally. "I have _definitely_ made my share of mistakes—"

"None of which ever resulted in me getting shot, though," Peter interrupted, somehow managing to look both angry and morose at the same time. He could almost feel his Catholic upbringing kicking in, a rebellion against being let off too easily for his sins.

"No, but my mistakes almost cost you your career," Neal answered. _And your wife, _his mind added, but Neal really didn't want to go there. Instead, he continued, "As I was going to say, I've made my share of mistakes and you've been really, really good about not holding them against me. I'd say I owe you the same courtesy."

_And you don't even know about the worst mistakes I've made, _Neal thought, mind shying away from the memory of the night he'd _broken into their goddamned house _to get a look at that manifest.

Neal wondered, sometimes, how Peter would react if he knew about that. There weren't many things in the world that Neal was truly afraid of—but that was one of them. Because there weren't many things he'd done that he was ashamed of—but that was one. Maybe the biggest one. As a very intimate and personal betrayal, it was quite possibly the worst thing he'd ever done to Peter—and not just to Peter, but to Elizabeth, too. Because that had been _their _house that he'd broken into, _their _bed he'd perched on, staring blindly at the paper he'd come for, as an oblivious and absurdly caring Peter told Neal, in earnest tones, how _he_, a burglar, a thief and a liar, deserved to be happy.

Yes, that was the night he'd made his first break with Mozzie about the treasure; he'd lied to him about finding the manifest. But that didn't change what had come before. He'd used Peter and Elizabeth's trust in him to manipulate them, to betray them, to violate their home, and it still made him feel sick inside that there was a part of him that could do that to people he considered his friends. That was a part of who Neal Caffrey was, and it was still there, which meant he could do something similar again. Neal didn't like it, but it was the reality of who he was. Who he'd always been.

Next to a character flaw _that_ fundamental—well, he had to admit that Peter's brain cramp with the map paled in comparison.

Neal cut off that line of thought abruptly to return to the subject at hand, pondering what Peter had done. It only took him a minute to realize it.

"Aha!" Neal exclaimed, in a _Eureka _voice. He looked transported, like he'd discovered something momentous. "I get it! I get it now, Peter. It all comes back to the thing that, above all, you can't bear to admit."

"What an idiot I was?" Peter asked, grimacing liked he'd tasted something foul. He didn't see why this was a _Eureka_ moment. This was obvious.

"No—oh. Well, I mean, _yeah,_" Neal conceded in a _duh _voice, rolling his eyes and throwing a hand in the air for emphasis. "Obviously. Of course you were. But not only that. I was referring to how much you missed me."

Peter just looked at him.

"That's it, Peter. That's why. Think about it!" Neal said excitedly. "Look at what you did. That incredibly foolish, remarkably careless act of leaving the map—"

"Yeah, I think we've firmly established that that was not my finest hour," Peter retorted. He accompanied his statement with a mild glare, even though he knew how hopeless it was to try to stop Neal when he was on a roll. Peter knew all too well the tell-tale signs of Neal believing he'd made some sort of breakthrough.

"—the unimaginable act of leaving the map where Collins could find it," Neal continued patiently, as if Peter hadn't spoken. He was warming to the topic now, alive with the glow of discovery. "Why did you do that? _Emotion_, Peter. When you realized you knew where I was, you were so overcome with emotion, with _jubilation_, that it overran your mental faculties. This, _this _is the proof of how much you really missed me. See, I knew it!"

"Uh. Huh." Peter said it very slowly.

"And I know, you're a hardened FBI agent," Neal went on. "You don't want to admit that you missed your criminal consultant that much. I totally get that."

"I'm hardened?"

"Oh, I mean that in the best possible way," Neal said, waving a hand. "You know. Tough. Hard-boiled. Seasoned."

"Seasoned is better."

Neal nodded approval. "As a _seasoned _FBI agent, you have to a reputation to uphold. It wouldn't do for people to know that you left the map there because you were overcome with excitement about finding your wayward CI. And you don't even want to admit it to _me. _I get it. It's fine. Your secret is safe with me. And Jones and Diana, too, I'm sure." He smiled a righteous smile, looking vindicated.

"Where do you _get _this stuff?" Peter said, looking up in exasperation as he spoke, as if he were addressing the ceiling.

"You do realize that, as far as I'm concerned, this takes what happened from insane to almost-adorable, right?" Neal said earnestly. "You temporarily lost your faculties. All because of the overwhelming joy you felt upon realizing that you might once again have me around to . . . to complain about that revolting coffee, and whine about the van, and never listen to anything you say—all the things you missed, and more. All the things you can't _admit_ that you missed. You lost all ability to think rationally, and I have to say, that only happens when you really, really miss someone, Peter. _That's why you left the map there,_ and it's totally understandable." He ended by beaming at Peter.

Peter groaned. "Or maybe I left it there because subconsciously I _wanted_ Collins to find you—so I'd be assured of never having to put up with your crap ever again," he said in a warning voice. "How's _that_ for a theory?"

Neal threw his head back and laughed heartily, like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "That's a good one! Points for creativity, Peter."

Peter scrubbed at his face and wondered: was it too late to suggest that Neal run? Again.

_Yes. Much too late. You're stuck with him now. _

"Okay, enough," Neal said, taking pity on Peter, because, really, he'd suffered enough _(and it wasn't like Neal didn't have the rest of their natural lives to_ _tease Peter about that map; seriously, it was going to be a veritable gold mine)_.

"Moving along . . . so Collins gets a warrant, possibly through nefarious means that we're not allowed to discuss, and he finds the map. Disaster has struck. Then what?"

"I lost it a little bit," Peter admitted. It was a relief to have the worst part over with, like a weight had been lifted. "I went to Hughes's office and I just kind of . . . went off."

Neal's eyes widened in alarm. Just thinking about that conversation made him cringe. He'd known that this mess had to have put Peter in a difficult spot, but he was only now realizing just _how_ difficult. "What'd he say?"

"That Collins had every right to do what he'd done and that he'd already left to find you. That I needed to get my priorities straight."

"I'll bet," Neal said, exhaling slowly and then drinking some more.

"Then he basically gave me permission to go after you," Peter added, voice carefully casual.

Neal choked on the wine he'd been drinking and promptly went into a coughing fit. Peter wondered at first if Neal had done it deliberately to give himself time to decide how to respond, but the coughing went on too long to be fake (at least, he thought so).

When Neal had recovered enough to be able to talk again, his tone was one of disbelief. "You're kidding."

Peter shook his head. 'He said to think about my priorities. And he said if I decided it was you, that he couldn't protect me, but he'd understand."

Peter watched Neal's eyes narrow thoughtfully as he assimilated this information with what he already knew about Hughes, trying to figure out his motivation.

"I think he was worried about you, too," Peter added. "You don't give him enough credit."

"Only because he doesn't give _me _any," Neal muttered.

"That's overstating it a bit. Maybe at one time, but not anymore."

"I guess you're right."

"You _know _I'm right," Peter shot back. "And I'll tell you something else. This whole arrangement—reestablishing your deal—doesn't happen if Hughes isn't totally on board with it."

He leaned forward. "I talked to a friend at Justice. They wanted McLeish, sure, but they were skeptical as hell about your end of it. If Hughes hadn't gone to bat for you, talked you up, along with what you do here, you could be back in supermax right now. Or on the run permanently. I'm told he made quite the impassioned speech on your behalf."

"On _my _behalf. Really?" Neal said, his voice quiet and incredulous. He ducked his head and fiddled with the stem of his wine glass.

"Really," Peter answered.

He watched Neal's face carefully. Neal looked surprised and maybe a little bit proud, but it wasn't the normal _aren't-I-great _look he had when he was pleased with himself. This was hesitant and slightly shy, like he couldn't believe it and was almost afraid to show it.

"That's . . . that's just—wow," Neal said.

"Yup," Peter agreed. He drank his beer and Neal sipped his wine.

Finally Peter cleared his throat. "I'm just glad that everything worked out."

"Me, too," Neal said.

A small silence ensued before Neal spoke again.

"There's one other question I do have, Peter," he said, a little hesitant, but serious.

Peter looked at him guardedly before he answered. "Sure. Everything's out in the open, now."

"Good," Neal said, a broad smile breaking across his face. "That's what I thought. So . . . if that's true, well, I was wondering . . . I'm sure you wouldn't mind—could I see the infamous map?"

Peter exhaled slowly. "I thought we agreed not to discuss it. And no, you cannot see the map. It's in evidence. I assume."

"Come on, Peter. Please?"

"No."

"Because I was just wondering—after you circled Cape Verde, did you write in big letters, _Neal is here_? Like at a highway rest stop, when you look at the map and there's a circle with an arrow and it says, _You are here . . ._"

"You are like a dog with a bone," Peter sighed as Neal smiled wickedly.

"And _you _are such an easy target," Neal told him, chuckling.

After Neal had stopped, Peter cleared his throat. "Since we're getting things out in the open, there's something else I . . . I want you to know."

Neal looked up at him quickly. His expression was bland; probably no one but Peter could have seen that all his senses were on alert.

"When you talked, before, about what it felt like to be free, you were honest and I appreciate that. I appreciate that you didn't sugar-coat it for me. But I didn't say anything—and I should have. I should have said how sorry I am that you got so close and had it snatched away from you—here and on the island. That's probably worse than if you'd never gotten close to it at all."

Neal gave him a long, appraising look and then shrugged. "I'm very adaptable. And you and I both know, even if hardly anyone else does: it's not like I really deserved it, anyway."

Peter stared at him. It was jarring to hear Neal Caffrey talk about _deserving _something. The word wasn't normally in his vocabulary. In Neal's worldview, you got what you could get—legally or otherwise—and that was it. If you had something—whether it was because someone had offered it to you, or you just figured out a way to get it, then presto—you deserved it. Because you _had_ it. There was no moral component, no question of whether you _ought _to have it.

Neal leaned his chin on one hand, raised an eyebrow and flashed that blinding Caffrey smile. Peter couldn't help wondering if Neal was doing that scary mind-reading thing again, where he knew what Peter was thinking without a word being said (something Peter was all too aware of because, truth be told, Peter could do the same thing back to Neal, given the right circumstance).

Peter looked at that smile, which he found perpetually annoying because he knew it was fake—it was a tool Neal used rather than a genuine expression of emotion. And despite all that, despite how much Peter had always disliked that smile, he was now realizing he'd actually missed _that _too.

Damn, but he was getting soft.

"I'm sorry," Peter said, deciding to keep things light. "I thought I just heard you say you didn't _deserve _something. Are you _sure _your brain hasn't turned to mush?"

Neal's hundred-watt smile mellowed into a devilish grin as he spoke. "Hmm. Someone who left a map with the words _Neal is here_ lying about in his living room may want to think twice before questioning _my _thought processes."

"The map did _not _say that," Peter said, squeezing the words out through gritted teeth. "And maybe your thought processes do leave something to be desired, because I seem to recall us agreeing that we weren't going to discuss it."

Neal pushed his chair back, stretching out, and gazed heavenward like he was searching for strength. "Oh, I know, but it's sooo tempting, Peter. And you know how hard it can be for me to resist temptation."

"Unless you want me to start reciting chapter and verse of _your_ mistakes, I suggest you try," Peter said.

His voice was ominous. But when Neal looked at him, Peter was smiling. "Deal?" he asked.

"Deal," Neal said, smiling back.

"I'm only human, though; you said it yourself, Peter," Neal intoned solemnly. "Which means that, while I'll try very hard, I don't know if I'll be able to forget about the map."

"Didn't think you would," Peter sighed.

* * *

Sometime later, Peter was on his third beer and Neal his second glass of wine.

" . . . whoa, wait a minute," Peter said, holding up a hand as he eyed Neal in disbelief. "You're telling me that, to celebrate your return, June opened a fifty-year-old bottle of Scotch—"

"Actually, it's more than fifty years old, now," Neal remarked.

"—that cost_ twelve thousand dollars?_" Peter demanded. _Only Caffrey . . . ._

Neal raised his eyebrows and nodded, beaming. His white teeth gleamed in the darkness of the room.

"I like Scotch," Peter pointed out, sounding just a tad grumpy.

Neal gave him a pitying look. "Which is why it's really unfortunate that you weren't here that night. And I hate to say it, but until you've tasted the Dalmore, you haven't really _had_ Scotch. If you know what I mean."

"Oh. No wonder you wanted to come back here," Peter said, shaking his head in wonderment.

"I do have it pretty good."

"It also makes my welcome-back gift look pathetic by comparison," Peter muttered.

"Honestly, your gift was . . . lacking even before we compared it to the Dalmore," Neal said, chuckling at Peter's disgruntled look before adding in a more serious tone, "Kidding, Peter, kidding. You've done more than enough for me—too much."

"I was worried about how you'd react," Peter said abruptly. At the non-sequitur, Neal's smile vanished, replaced by something softer and subtler. Peter wasn't talking about his gift anymore. "How you'd react to me . . . to my doing something so careless, something that put you in danger. I thought it might . . . I don't know, shake your faith in me, maybe."

"It would take a lot more than that," Neal assured him, a fond expression on his face. "Plus, we've already established that it was temporary insanity, Peter. So you get a pass."

He leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eye. "And don't forget: I did try to give you an out—more than one, in fact. My theory about the polygraph wasn't bad. And the bit about hacking your travel reservations was even better." He shrugged. "Personally, if I were you, I'd have gone with that one."

"_The bit about_—" Peter echoed. He glared at Neal, but inside, a part of him was exulting: _I was right. He __**was**__ trying to con me. _"You're saying you wanted me to lie to you?"

Neal looked pained. "Peter. The word 'lie' is so . . . indelicate. Let's call it an alternate version of the truth."

"_You _might call it that. Most people would call it what it is: a lie," Peter countered. "Answer the question. You wanted me to lie to you?"

"Of course," Neal said dismissively, rolling his eyes. "Why not? It was plausible enough."

"But it wouldn't have been the truth."

Neal flapped a hand in the air. "Truth, schmuth. You think I would have cared? Hardly. I just would have pretended to believe it, with you none the wiser. The perfect image of Peter Burke is safely preserved, you remain blessedly ignorant of the fact that I know it's a lie, all the while saving you the trouble of a nervous breakdown. Everybody wins."

This was the duplicitous side of Neal, the one that made Peter nervous. Sometimes it was easy to forget that Neal thought this way _all the time._ It would take a normal person an interval of planning to come up with this kind of ingenious scheme, with multiple possible lies built in. They'd have to work at it to devise a strategy this clever, this calculating.

Neal did it in a heartbeat, effortlessly, and with the blithe nonchalance of someone ordering a latte at Starbucks.

Peter swallowed his misgivings at Neal being . . . well, Neal. This was what he'd had signed up for, after all. "Everybody wins, huh? With you never knowing what really happened?"

"Well, now. Never is a very long time. I'm sure I would have coaxed it out of Jones or Diana sooner or later," Neal admitted. "I have my ways, you know."

"I do know," Peter said dryly.

_And over the last six weeks, he'd missed those, too._

FIN

_Thank you for sticking with this story 'til the end! Sorry it took longer than planned. Hope you enjoyed. As always, comments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated._


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